She finally freed her ponytails and, still smiling that coy, shy smile of hers, dropped her hands to the elastic of her short skirt. She blushed and, ...iggled nervously as she slowly bent over and shed her skirt; it dropped to the floor by it’s own accord once it was past her thighs and she daintily stepped out of it. Her panties were a soft cream color, with pastel pink and yellow flowers on them, and her pubic mound was clearly visible behind the fabric gusset. Her face was flushed, but she. The kidnapping and loss of memory. Trying to survive on the streets. Her alter ego, Sex Kitten. Hooking. And finally the murder attempt and her winding up here. Looking resigned, she ended her tale and waited. Monica spoke up, her detached clinician voice speaking. ‘Well, your story has the beauty of being internally consistent. The brain damage you describe could, in a remotely conceivable way, have the effects you’re describing. You realize just how far out this story is?’ ‘Yes. But it’s. More

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